Atlantic City
by downbythebay
Summary: AU. While on a mission Scott disappears, everyone assumes he’s dead. He returns two years later with no memory of what has happened since then, only to find that Jean has moved on and now has a child with Logan. Includes OC's, see inside for full summary
1. Taken

**Title:** Atlantic City**  
Disclaimer: **Not mine, never will be...I just like to borrow them from Marvel and 20th Century Fox for my own amusement and do not profit. And in case you were wondering...I don't own Atlantic City either, shucks...

**Rating:** R or M

**Summary:** Scott gets a taste of what it's like to be Logan. While on a mission he disappears, everyone assumes he's dead. He returns two years later with no memory of what has happened since then, only to find that Jean has moved on and now has a child with Logan. Can he find solace with the weather goddess? Who is the mysterious woman who shows up and what does she have to say about Scott's missing time? I admit I drew a lot of ideas from Alias, and this movie about Russians brainwashing this guy to have him kill the president...which I later found out was the Manchurian Candidate...the old one in black and white. Based primarily on the movies—just because they're easier to follow without all the entwining alternate universes, subplots, and spontaneous character deaths/rebirths, and people coming back from the future—but will contain various comic book elements. WIP.

**Warnings:** Violence, torture, sexual situations (not too graphic,) language.

**Chapter One: Taken**

It was supposed to be a routine mission. A mutant freedom conference had been scheduled in an abandoned warehouse. There were going to be several prominent keynote speakers from the mutant antiestablishment. It was supposed to be a low key assembly, but that didn't necessarily mean there wouldn't be trouble. Still, chances were good that the mission would be strictly observational. So the X-Men sent the fearless leader to keep watch. Scott was supposed to keep an eye on the mutant freedom demonstration, and call for back up if anything went wrong or got too rough. It should have been easy, but things got out of hand fast.

The demonstration was being held in an old warehouse in the city. Scott was standing in the shadows by the stage where several mutant activists were giving speeches inciting their brethren to take action against being put down by the "human scum". After the first hour things were doing alright, but then the fire alarms started going off. The room started filling with smoke as fires stretched out from behind the stage. The insufficient and out of date sprinkler system did little to quench the flames. People were trampling all over one another to get to the doors. Scott ducked back stage and rammed his body against the emergency exit only to find that it was locked tight, as well as every other door leading to safety.

The fire was spreading and they were all trapped, the smoke was so thick in front of Scott's visor he could barely see in the dark, and narrowly avoided a flaming rafter falling out of the ceiling. He inhaled a deep breath of smoke, as he struggled to find the door again, hoping he could blast it open. He tripped over a piece of stage equipment and hit the ground hard before passing out.

Dozens of people where killed that night. Most of the bodies were scorched beyond recognition. And when the news papers printed a list of those who could have been among the dead, Scott Summers was on that list.

The Professor tried endlessly for weeks to locate their missing X-Man with Cerebro, just in case the paper was mistaken, and the police report was wrong. Just in case there was a chance he survived the fire. Ororo, Logan, Kurt, and Jean all canvassed the neighborhood where the rally had taken place, and for many blocks around it. Endlessly, for days afterwards. But it was all to no avail.

Finally the search stopped, and they began to discuss preparation for a memorial service for Scott. So maybe they would all start to believe, what they knew must have been true. Scott Summers, Cyclops, the leader of the X-Men, was dead.

The school was devastated by the news. Jean was distraught. There was a long period when she refused to eat or sleep, or speak to anyone. But she was human, and every human feels the need to be with other people, and have friends. They finally convinced her to go on living without her fiancé. And after some time, Jean was ready to love and be loved again by someone new. She would always be grateful for the support everyone offered her, and she could never forget Scott.

**_OOOOO_**

Scott awoke on the cold floor of a room that was entirely dark, but still, he could just barely make out the reddish outline of a door. His glasses had been replaced by a visor strapped around his head, and he was sure if he could get it off, then he could blast himself an escape route. The only problem was getting the visor off. He pulled at where it fastened behind his head, but it refused to give. He could already feel the effects of the lack of sunlight on his mutation as well as his body. If this room would be his permanent dwelling, he was sure; he wouldn't need the visor much longer anyway.

He was barefoot now, and his usually ensemble of khaki pants and a button up shirt had been replaced by dark sweatpants and a t-shirt. He cringed, realizing that at some point, someone had undressed him. He wasn't restrained, but the room was too dark for him to safely make his way around the piles of rubble that littered the floor. He could make out a rusted wire coat hanger on the floor besides him, a pole running from the floor to the ceiling, and a few cardboard boxes against the back wall. He thought for a moment there might be something he could use as a weapon.

Coat hanger vs. Uzi, he paused to ponder to himself. Then he realized that he would most likely come out of that particular situation with a bad case of tetanus, or a bullet in his brain. Neither conclusion was very appealing to him, so he decided to sit and wait.

He couldn't have been sure how long they left him sitting in the dark, cold cell. It felt like ages, and in that time he had no food, no water, and no human contact. Only the growing pain in his head, behind his eyes let him know that he was still alive. That and the sickness and hunger in his stomach. There were times he thought he was going insane, and times he wished he could just die and end it. Then the door opened.

Scott threw a hand over his eyes, to shield them from the bright yellow glow of artificial light as four people entered his dank prison. The first was a woman; tall and slender with raven hair down her back, and wore a feminine pantsuit. Of the three men, one was a well-groomed middle-aged man with lighter hair and a set jaw, wearing a suite and tie. The other two were apparently guards, with big semi-automatic guns.

"Mr. Summers," the first man started cheekily. "How are we feeling this evening?"

"Go to Hell!" Scott returned as forcefully as he could manage. The statement was retorted by a foot connecting with his face. Scott yelped in pain as he was kicked in the mouth, then reeled back and spat a mouthful of blood in the man's direction.

"Don't waste your breath," the woman warned smoothly. "Soon hell will be coming to you." They left the room with out another word, but unfortunately for Scott the worst was still yet to come.

Whoever these people were, they were obviously intent on breaking him down, and knew exactly how to go about it. He went for days without food or water, which was accompanied by hours of beatings—with everything from bare fists and metal tipped boots to whips and tasers—and the effects that the complete darkness had on his mutation, as well as other forms of sensory deprivations aiming to confuse him—lack of sleep, and the almost constant hissing of a broken pipe in the back of his cell. Things went on like that for, maybe two or three weeks, before they finally got around to introducing Scott to Dr. Kovit.


	2. Jayden Stone

Well, here we go. I introduce some fairly important original characters in this chapter, and if that bothers you, consider yourself warned and turn away now. If not, try to keep them in the back of your head, because we won't be seeing a few of them again for some time.

**Chapter Two: Jayden Stone**

The door to his cell opened and bright light flooded in. Scott instinctively shrunk away from the glow of florescent lights. The memory of the less than hospitable treatment he had been given so far made his stomach churn and he leaned over, vomiting up phlegm and stomach acid that left a burning feeling in his throat and mouth.

"Awe, poor little freak's sick to his stomach," one of the guards taunted.

"Fuck you," Scott returned half heartedly, as the other hoisted him to his feet roughly.

"Get up," he ordered. Scott tried as best as he cold to support himself, but his knees buckled under him, and he was forced to lean on one of the guards for support, as the took him from the room.

The hall was dimly lit, but it was a welcome change from the absolute dark of his prison. About halfway down the hall they crossed paths with a young woman. She was about 5 foot 10, sturdy hourglass shape, with long hair appearing dark with the tint of his visor, but with lighter highlights. She had a pleasant round face, with gentle high cheek bones, full lips, and almond-shaped eyes. She moved like an animal, graceful and confident, hunched over slightly, head down, eyes up. She moved almost like Wolverine—Scott didn't think a woman could move like that. As they passed each other the guard who had taunted him earlier went to smack her backside.

"_Shaw!_" She growled ominously, throwing him a dirty look before she continued on her way, muttering: "Fucking Neanderthals," as the two guards laughed. Scott couldn't help but let his eyes follow her, and wonder if she was a prisoner here too.

They took him into a small room and forced him down in a chair in the center of the room with spring loaded bands that automatically secured around his ankles and wrists. He couldn't help but be reminded of a Chinese raping chair—_Damn Ororo for leaving that movie on human cruelty that day I subbed for her._

"Hello Mr. Summers," the son of a pig in a suit that had come to his cell before greeted him from his position across the room. "I hope this morning finds you well."

"Go have sex with yourself," Scott shot back with as much vigor as he could manage. If his students could hear the things coming out of their teacher's mouth these days.

"I think we might have to work on that attitude," the man taunted. Scott watched with morbid, detached interest as the Doctor wrapped a leather strap around his forearm with a wire leading from it to a machine just behind the chair.

"What do you want from me?" Scott demanded, wrists straining against his bonds. Suit and tie sneered at him from his position across the room.

"Well, the tricky thing is," suit and tie answered, feigning thoughtfulness. "We don't exactly want you." Scott frowned. If they thought they were going to learn anything about the institute from him they could torture him until hell froze over but he wasn't going to say a word. He wouldn't tell them anything about the professor, or his kids, his wife, his friends, his family. He'd die for them.

"What is your name," the doctor asked him in what sounded like a thick Swiss or German accent, maybe a bit of both.

_Kurt,_ Scott sighed mentally, keeping his mouth shut, watching the doctor palm what appeared to be a chunky, black remote. The doctor hit a button on the remote, and Scott felt a strong electric current surge up his arm and across his chest before spreading to the rest of his body. He bit down hard to contain the shout of agony that would have escaped from him.

"What is your name?" The doctor repeated, as the pain began to ebb. Scott paused to reconsider: was this really the kind of question he should put up a fight about? They already knew the answer anyways.

"What is your name?" The doctor pressed, no less calm or cold than he had been the first time.

"Scott Summers," he replied grudgingly. Immediately another wave of pain shot through his body. This time he couldn't suppress the cry of surprise and pain.

"I answered your goddamn question, what the hell was that for?" He demanded. Suit and tie sneered as the doctor went on.

"Your name is Jayden Stone," the older man informed him. Scott took a few panicked breaths as the man rambled on. They were trying to brainwash him, or something, he decided in alarm. Make him think he was someone else—what was he supposed to do? Xavier never trained him for anything like this.

"When were you born?" The doctor asked him. Scott blinked behind the visor; he had missed that tidbit of information. He decided not to give his own because that was definitely not the right answer and opted for:

"I don't remember. Do you think you could repeat that for me?" Another shock and a whimper of pain.

"You were born July 27, 1976," the doctor continued.

"You made me a Leo," Scott noted. "I mean I've never actually been too big on astrology, but I think I could live with that. I never really liked being a Virgo, but my girlfriend always told me I was borderline." Another wave of electricity surged through his body. Scott shouted in pain, trying desperately to shake it off.

"You know this is starting to get old," he informed them. Suit and tie waved a finger at him.

"Attitude," he warned. Scott felt another shock pass across his upper body, this time it felt like someone had dropped a sack of bricks on his chest. He felt his heartbeat go askew and realized he was going into cardiac arrest, or arrhythmia, or something painful like that, and most likely deadly. Jean was the doctor, after all, not him. He grit his teeth against the pain and lurched forward in the confines of his chair. And for a while the other two stood there watching.

At that moment he thought that was it. He was quite certain he was going to die like that. And in retrospect, over the next few weeks, he was quite certain he would have preferred it that way. But after a moment the doctor stuck a needle in his arm, and whatever it was, it stabilized him. At least then they decided that he had enough for one session, and the next thing he knew the two guards were hauling him out of the chair and back towards his cell.

"Dr. Kovit treat you real nice, huh, mutie," the bald man—Shaw—taunted as he twisted Scott's arm until he yelped in pain. Scott fought then, thrashing and kicking as hard as he could, despite the convulsions still coursing through his body. His efforts didn't last long, as someone—possibly the doctor, or suit and tie—stuck a taser in his lower back. He cried out in pain sinking down on his knees, before the two guards hauled him up roughly and dragged him down the hall.

They tossed him in the cell and slammed the door loudly behind him. As he pulled himself up, he could see enough as he glanced around the room, to realize that it had been cleaned out in his absence. Although there was still that damn pole and the broken pipe hissing near the back of the cell.

He was still jittery and queasy and soon sunk to the floor, he just laid there with his face pressed against the cold concrete. They had kidnapped him, starved him, beat him, and electrocuted him, they wanted him to believe he was a whole different person, and gave him a heart attack. He started to wonder what else they could do. At least they hadn't raped him, yet. Scott was fairly secure with his masculinity, but he was well aware that he had an unnaturally pretty face for a man, even with the glasses, or the visor, or whatever the hell it was they had strapped to his head right now.

The door opened and soft footfalls entered the cell. Scott stayed where he lay. Whoever it was, he wasn't going to fight them, but he sure as hell wasn't going to cower away from them in fear. Against his will he felt another phantom spark shoot through his body and he jumped a little as his visitor silently knelt besides him. She, he assumed she, from the long hair that touched his arm slightly as she leaned over to examine him—possibly looking for any physical wounds—before she laid a dark fleece blanket over his shoulders.

She rubbed the soft fabric up and down his arm gently. And, having always liked soft things, he couldn't help but give a gentle sigh and close his eyes. She might have thought he was asleep in the dark, but whatever she thought; she decided to stay there and rub his back gently.

Scott kept his eyes shut, feeling her hand move up and down, back and forth and in gentle circles. He found that he was soon reminded of what Jean did for him some nights when they had returned from a mission that hadn't gone exactly as planned, and it comforted him. So in spite of himself he decided to stay still, let her rub his back, and allow himself to buy into the illusion that it was Jean there comforting him, and not some faceless woman.


	3. Brown Eyes

Forgive me if my science is off in this one. Most of what I know about Scott's mutation comes from on-line directories and conversations with friend, who has actually read a lot of the comic books. My knowledge of psychological conditioning as well is very fallible, derived primarily, as I have mentioned before, from 'Alias' and 'The Manchurian Candidate' as well as a few news articles on Guantanamo Bay.

**Chapter Three: Brown Eyes**

They must have seen that the effects of the sun deprivation were growing steadily worse and gave him a few days to rest, or at least vomit his guts out without being continuously beaten. He was, however, starved and dehydrated, due to the fact that once the guards had discovered that he couldn't even keep water down they promptly stopped bringing it.

So a day or two later, after purging his stomach of next to nothing almost continuously for several hours, the pain receded enough for him to finally ease into sleep.

Radiation powered his mutation. His body absorbed the infrared rays of the sun (and, to a far lesser degree, electrical lights,) and his X-Gene converted the energy into the pure force exerted through his eyes. There was a lot of ambiguity as to how and where exactly the conversion took place, and a good deal of speculation as to how it could be stopped. Now, Dr. Hank McCoy's theory had been that if his body was deprived of sunlight long enough, his power would recess and eyes would return to normal. However, as with any interference with a body's metabolism, it made him violently ill. So they had never been able to determine exactly how long it would take for his body to fully metabolize sunlight.

When he finally woke, the first thing he realized, in a panic, was that the continual pressure he had grown accustomed to beating in his head and behind his eyes was gone. His optic blasts had been completely drained. Rather than feel some kind of liberation in the relief of the consistent headache he had felt since manifestation, he felt extremely violated.

They had deprived him of the one thing that he should have been able to count on. The one thing he needed most. They had taken his power from him, and the control, the strength, and fortitude that he had learned with it. Now that that power was gone, he felt all his strength go with it, and although his eyes were still locked behind a layer of ruby quartz, for the first time in a very long time, he found himself able to cry, with real tears.

Some time later the guards came again to drag him off. He fought again, as hard as he could, and put up more of a fight that he had since he'd been here. However, a taser in his side and a nightstick smashing into the back of his knees quickly ended his resistance. They hoisted him up and dragged him across the hall, forcing him down in an aluminum chair, and cuffed his wrists to it.

"Twenty days underground," Suit and tie sneered from the other side of the table. "Should be quite enough to get the sunlight out of his system. Now let's see those eyes." One of the guards unfastened the visor from behind his head and pulled it away from his face. Scott shut his eyes against the bright light, and when he opened his eyes, he could see colors.

Not all of them, mind you, that even without the visor he was still color blind, but instead of a world of black, red, and shades of pink, he saw distorted colors, whites, and grays. Primary colors were strongest. Red was still the brightest, of course. Yellow was fairly easy to make out. Blue was slightly more difficult. Secondary colors were nearly impossible for him to differentiate. He could just barely distinguish orange, while purple and green became murky red and yellow.

Suit and tie forced his face close enough to Scott that he could smell his rancid breath. Scott cringed and backed away.

"They're brown," the other man noted, seemingly surprised. Scott figured as much. They had been brown before his power manifested. Brain damage wouldn't have altered that.

"You were expecting a brilliant shade of fuchsia?" Scott asked defiantly, and grunted as he was backhanded across the face.

"Get him the hell out of here," Suit and tie ordered. One man freed his wrists as the other hoisted him up. He fought with them, but didn't manage to struggle free. In the end they tossed him back into his cell roughly and slammed the thick metal door behind him.

Soon enough, sessions with the good doctor picked up again. Only now they were longer, and more creative. For hours on end he would be bombarded with images and sounds, being coerced into associating them with something personal. Some days they'd tie him down with an IV in each arm. One would be putting him to sleep with barbiturates, and the other would be a drip of methamphetamine to shock him awake. And of course electroshock therapy was always a favorite—paralyzing him with a muscle relaxant, and then triggering a seizure with a jolt of electricity to his brain. Sometimes, for days afterwards, he could barely remember his own name. The beatings continued, as well as the sensory deprivation. All the while hearing stories about a made-up childhood, a fake life.

Of course there were times he almost began to buy into it. Times when he had trouble remembering the faces and places that were important to him, and he woke up with the doctor's words running through his head. Still he fought them. Despite it all he remained determined to survive, to cling to what he knew. The animal instinct of survival had kicked in, and it was quite unnerving what he'd do to survive. There were times when he'd catch himself gagging on half-chewed, rancid food, and forcing it back down his throat, just so he'd have something in his stomach.

The worst part was that they knew, they knew about her, about Jean. The guards, at least, they'd talk about her. What they'd do to her. What they might have already done, as far as he knew. Killing her, raping her, and how he couldn't do a thing about it. Then again, that may have been a blessing in disguise. A constant reminder of what he had to hold onto. He was supposed to be forgetting Jean and hearing them speak of her, only brought him back to how much he missed her. But the truth was, that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how determined he was to fight them, no matter how desperately he clung to Scott Summers, he was losing himself. They were wearing him out, wearing him down, and as much as he tried, he couldn't stop it.

He was strapped down to that aluminum chair now; the familiar, Asian woman was sitting across from him. Sitting on the table between them was a taser, a knife and a gun. The woman seemed intent on staring him down, and there was a time when he would have glared defiantly back at her, but right now, he was just too tired.

A few moments passed in silence, and she stood, and took the gun off the table, and pulled the hammer back, pointing it into is face.

"Is it frightening?" She questioned in her low, sultry tone. "Knowing that at any minute I could pull the trigger and..." Her voice trailed off pointedly.

"Shoot me in the head," he finished dryly. "Go ahead, if that's what you want." She scrunched up her delicate nose slightly, coming up behind him, her dark hair, falling around his shoulders as she leaned over to him.

"Naw, I wouldn't do that," she admitted teasingly, pointing the gun down to his leg instead, her body resting against his, her lips right by his ear. "I might be interesting to shoot you in the kneecap...how about that?" He swallowed once.

"There are worse things in the world," he answered emptily. She laughed in his ear, before setting the gun back on the table.

"Yes," she agreed. "But you know...toys aren't really for me." And within that same breath she had slammed his face down into the table with enough force to break his nose, he was sure. He gave a brief shout of pain as she held him down. He struggled against her grip at first, but then he stopped. He felt too drained.

She released him at length, but he still didn't lift his head. She started to drag her manicured fingernails down his neck and it made him shiver.

"I'm going to leave you here," she started. "To think things over, and when I get back, we'll really get to it." He heard the clicking of her heels on the granite floor. He heard the door open and close. He sighed heavily.

Somewhere in the back of his head he knew that if he let go now, he'd be gone forever, but he closed his eyes anyway, and drifted into blessed nothingness.

When Yessica came back into the interrogation room, she was expecting some of the fight to have returned to her prisoner. But instead she found him unconscious. She noticed he was still breathing, at this point, so she undid the straps around his wrists, and then went to brush one of her slender hands through his greasy hair. Immediately he started up in attention.

He surveyed her and his surroundings frantically before demanding:

"Who are you? Where in hell am I? What is this? Where are my glasses?" She watched him curiously. The first thing she noticed was the change in his diction, the eschewed monophthong, the subtle twang that had not been there before.

"What's your name?" She asked him finally.

"What's my name?" He started up heatedly, pointing an accusing finger at her. "What's your name? Dang it! I'm the one who's been abducted here!" She lifted his chin, so he would meet her eyes as she asked again, sweetly:

"What's your name?" He stopped and swallowed hard; answering finally:

"Jayden Stone." She smiled to herself.

"Mr. Stone," she offered him a hand, affably. "I'm Yessica Howe, and I have a bit of a business proposition for you."

There you have it folks, review please, any suggestions and ideas are well appreciated, I'll need the inspiration, because, as always, we are drawing ever closer to the moment of truth...Scott's return home. Isn't this exciting? I'm particularly interested in any kind of interaction you'd like to see, due to the fact that I've never been in this kind of a situation, personally, I'm trying to be very cautious as I proceed.


	4. Roadhouse

My dearest and most beloved readers,

I've made some interesting observations...There are a total of nine people receiving alerts for this story, and a grand total of seven reviews. Now the conclusion I've come to is this: those who are not reviewing find this story so reviling and perverted that they don't want to be associated with it, If that is the case, a less generous author might be inclined to stop updating, or at least rethink the direction this story is going. However, I am a kind and merciful woman, who would like to casually suggest that if that be the case—for whatever reason—you pretty please drop me an anonymous review, personal message, or even an e-mail, because I thrive on feedback and would like to hear all your thoughts, feelings, and concerns:D

**Chapter Four: Roadhouse**

Scott opened his eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings of a cheap motel room. He yawned and stretched. He felt groggy, like a shroud of dust had settled in his mind. Nevertheless, he forced himself out from under sweat-soaked sheets and onto his feet, which didn't seem entirely ready to accept the weight of his body. His head ached, not the dull throbbing he had grown accustomed to, but a sharp pain in his temples, like a nail being driven through his skull. He took a few deep breaths and pushed the pain out of his mind, temporarily at least.

He surveyed the room, to find it quite ordinary. One double bed with papery sheets, two stiff pillows, a tacky comforter, and, most likely, legions of bedbugs. Thin carpeting, tattered at the edges, a blocky nightstand and a matching dresser, a small, primordial television set that had been branded with the motel's insignia. The thick curtains, adorned with patterns of triangles, circles and squares, all in rusted colors, were pulled closed.

He went to the window and pulled the curtains open, squinting as the bright light flooded in all at once. He adjusted his visor slightly, before heading back to the bed, and taking a seat. On the night stand there was a key—to the room, he guessed, from the attached, wooden keychain with the number 16 carved into it—a notepad, and a few stray bottles containing what might have equated to a handful of pills. He took a look at the hotel-provided notepad. Printed across the bottom, in scratchy, thick font was: _Toronto Roadhouse_

"Toronto?" He pondered aloud, as a thick sickness first settled in the pit of his stomach, "Toronto, Canada?" He picked up the phone and dialed an all-too familiar number.

"Hello," came the answer of a familiar woman's voice.

"Ororo, it's me," he started. There was a pause.

"Scott?" She sounded apprehensive.

"Yes, Ororo," he replied shakily. "Look, I need to ask you a favor, I'm at this hotel, and I'm not feeling well. Could you come pick me up?"

"Do you know where you are?" She asked, cautiously.

"Sort of," he offered. "I've got an address for the hotel," he read the address off the note pad for her and gave her his room number.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," she answered finally.

"Thanks, Ororo," he offered finally. "I'll see you soon." He set the handset back down, and fell back onto the bed. As he waited he soon became more aware of himself, and the fact that he looked like someone had just rolled him off a tractor. He had on a worn pair of coveralls and a plaid, short-sleeve, button-up shirt. His hair was unruly and he felt that he desperately needed to shave.

Scott casually shoved a hand into one of the deep pockets of his overalls. His fingers met with something round, and slightly ribbed. He removed what seemed to be an old, wooden poker chip, with slightly worn, purple writing on it reading: _Liberty Resorts. Atlantic City, NJ._ He rubbed a thumb carefully across the lettering before placing the chip back in his pocket.

He took one of the containers of pills off the night stand and went to read the label. He was surprised to find that it was a prescription, the label reading only: _Zolpidem. Take one tablet before bed._

'_Sleeping pills?' _ He determined; however unsettling it seemed. He took a look at the other container to find it bore a similar description: _Lithium. Take two tablets daily._ He wracked his brain for the medicinal uses of lithium, but came up lacking. The last bottle was just asprin. He felt another sudden pang in his head and decided that it might be a good idea to take some.

He got up, heading into the bathroom for a glass of water. He noticed a small duffle bag in the corner by the door, and guessed it contained a change of clothes. He entered the bathroom and washed out the small, plastic cup sitting on the sink, before swallowing down a pair of capsules. On the counter there was a small black-leather carrier, containing a few primitive toiletries—shower gel, shampoo, and the like, as well as a few more vials of medication.

So after taking care of the unbearable five-o'clock shadow he had developed, he took the small bag, and tossed the medicine in it, and packed it away in the duffle in the corner. None of it was familiar to him, but he though it would be best to take it back to the mansion anyways.

A moment later there was a knock on the door. He opened it and was greeted with a fist in his face. The white-haired Storm pinned him against the wall with her foot high against his chest. Still perfectly balanced, fists poised to defend or attack in an instant. He grunted, unprepared for the sudden attack.

"Well hello to you too," he started, the unsettled feeling in his stomach worsening.

"Who are you?" She demanded sternly.

"It's me, Scott," he assured her, she pushed her foot harder into his chest.

"And I can prove it," he continued more desperately, finally managing to push her off of him. "Like we did at Liberty Island, when we thought Logan might have been Mystique...and he called me a dick." Ororo let her guard drop, and observed him critically, and then she hugged his neck.

"Scott, it's you," she started breathlessly. He smiled awkwardly, returning the embrace carefully. "It's so good to see you."

"It's good to see you too, Ororo," he offered, not exactly sure how to take the weather goddess's uncharacteristic spout of emotion.

"Where have you been?" She asked him at length. Scott shook his head.

"I couldn't say," he admitted. "One minute I'm..." There was a break as the sharp pain in his head worsened severely as he tried to recall the details. "And the next I wake up in a whole different country—And look at me, I look ridiculous."

"You look wonderful," she assured him, and even went so far as to offer him a kiss on the cheek. Scott was bewildered by the loving gesture, and Ororo took note. "Let's get back to the jet," she suggested finally. "I left it in a clearing back in the woods."

Scott stayed behind a moment as she started out, and touched his face gingerly where her lips had brushed his cheek, before taking up his bag and following her out.


	5. Homecoming

I hope this serves to resolve some of the questions brought up by the last chapter. I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying things so far! There's plenty more to come, I only hope the Scott-Jean interaction in this chapter is satisfactory.

As a side note, it's not going to be the run-of-the-mill Jean/Scott love story...sorry to those of you who may or may not have been hoping for it...It's going to be Jean/Logan, with some Scott/Ororo undertones, initially, before making it's way into Scott? because I don't know. I'm hoping the plot and relationship I've been brainstorming are going to get as positive a response as I've received so far. If you care, take a moment to reread my summary and notes.

Thank you, and on with the show...

**Chapter Five: Homecoming**

Scott sat in the back of the jet, trying to steady himself. Ororo put the Blackbird on autopilot and came back to sit beside him tentatively.

"How are you feeling?" She asked. He closed his eyes and shook his head before replying.

"Dizzy," he admitted grudgingly. "Tired. Sick."

"Scott," Ororo pressed him at length. "Can you tell me the last thing that you remember? Before you woke up today." He paused a moment to consider, his stomach still churning dangerously.

"I remember," he began anxiously, "The rally, at the warehouse, and the fire. How could I end up in Canada?" Ororo sighed heavily and looked away from him, pensive.

"Scott," she addressed him finally. "There's something I need to tell you, and you probably won't believe it. But, since that day, Scott, you've been gone over two and a half years."

"That's...not...possible. How could it be? I feel like it was just yesterday." He protested, reeling. "You're saying I've been gone all that time? How could something like that happen?"

"I don't know, Scott, I really don't know," she admitted. "But we did everything we could to find you, and that's the truth. Jean, Logan, and I searched for weeks, some of the kids too. The Professor spent almost days at a time in Cerebro, without even stumbling over a passing shadow of you...You have to understand, there has to be a point. We all thought you must be dead." Scott sank back in his chair heavily.

"This is too much," he told her, pressing a hand to his brow. "Right now I just want to go home...and sleep in my own bed." He turned his head away from her to prove his point

"There's one more thing you need to know, before we get back," Ororo continued, demanding his attention once again. "And it won't be easy to hear—"

"Will it be easier than hearing that I've lost almost three years of my life?" He questioned bitterly, without turning back to face her.

"And you won't understand," She went on without missing a beat. "Jean, she—" Ororo had his full attention now, as he practically jumped out of his chair, asking:

"What's wrong? Is she alright? God, if anything happened to her while I was gone..." Ororo placed a slender hand on his arm to calm him.

"She's alright Scott," Ororo assured him soothingly, "But she," she took a breath to get it out quickly, ripping the band-aid off all at once, "She got married—" Scott was dead still, his heart paralyzed. But the worst was yet to come.

"To Logan." Then came the awful, nauseous feeling he had gotten the first time he had seen the love of his life with the boorish man.

"They have a daughter now." It was official; his heart had been ripped from his chest, and now laid in shattered pieces on the floor. Scott groaned audibly, turning back towards the window.

"You've got to understand, Scott," Ororo felt obligated to defend Jean's new life. "You were dead." She thought he hadn't heard her until he replied:

"But I wasn't."

Arriving at the mansion did nothing to put Scott's troubled mind at ease. It was the moment he had been dreading, facing Jean...and Logan, knowing that he had lost the battle.

Ororo landed the jet softly in the hanger under the basketball court. Scott emerged from the underground bay just a few paces ahead of the weather goddess.

That's when he saw her. She was still the same old Jean, still long and slender and strong and beautiful after so much time. As collected as he would have liked to appear, he reeled in that moment he first saw her, loosing his breath almost, just like old times. And in that instant she had wrapped him in a warm embrace.

"Scott, thank God you're home," her voice in his ear sent shivers down his spin. "Thank God you're home. Scott, I need to tell you what's happened—"

"Don't," he cut her off a little more harshly than he intended. She seemed a bit taken aback. "It's alright. I've already heard..."

"Everything?" She questioned. He nodded. "And are you alright?"

"As well as can be expected," he replied blandly. Jean flashed him a bittersweet smile.

"I can't even tell you how glad I am that you're safe," She offered him gently. "You should come see her," she suggested warmly.

"Who?" Scott asked, brow creasing with inquisition.

"My daughter," Jean explained. Scott's stomach churned harder. "Summer, we named her after you." Scott forced an awkward smile. What an honor. "Would you like to meet her?"

Why, in the name of all that was holy would he want to meet her? Whether knowingly or not, this completely innocent little girl was the embodiment of the relationship that the love of his life had with another man. What reason could he possibly have for wanting to see her? But the truth was that the little girl who bore his name was a piece of Jean, and so he cherished her already.

"I'd love to," he answered.

* * *

Jean opened the door to a dark nursery; that was with the exception of the mobile hanging above the crib against one wall. Jean moved to the large window at the opposite side of the room and drew the curtains back to allow the sunlight in.

"Rise and shine," she chorused, lovingly, moving to the crib to turn off the mobile.

Scott paced towards her as she produced the small child from her cradle, clad in lavender footie-pajamas. Jean held her safely in her arms, nestled onto her hip. The baby had a head full of gentle cornsilk-blond curls, chubby cheeks, expressive blue eyes, and two fingers stuck comfortingly in her mouth.

"This is Summer," Jean explained in the gentle soprano that was reserved for babies and puppies. "Summer, this is your Uncle Scott...Do you want to hold her?" Scott nodded silently as Jean shifted the infant's weight in her arms. Summer reached for him, and, smiling, he gathered her into his arms.

"She's gorgeous," he began reverently. Jean nodded, looking on with loving eyes. "Look at that head of hair," he went on.

"Surprising isn't it?" She questioned. Scott shrugged.

"It's like your mother's," he noted. Jean nodded.

"It is, isn't it?" She agreed, "But she's got Logan's eyes for sure..." Scott nodded sadly. "She loves car rides," Jean went on. "Sometimes they're the only thing that'll get her to sleep at night. Maybe you could take her out one night...if you want." Scott nodded.

"I'd love to," he agreed. Then added, at length, "No powers, yet, I'm guessing." Jean shook her head.

"Not yet," she agreed. "But when—or if—they do manifest, we'll be ready. She'll be safe..." There was a break in the conversation before Jean finally announced, "The professor wants to see you." Scott suspected she had just received some sort of mental page as she lifted the child from his arms, taking her back to the crib. "I'll take you."

"No, I'm alright." Scott protested, "As long as his office is still in the same place."

"Of course," Jean replied. "He's always liked the view of the lake." Scott nodded.

"I'll see you later then," he offered, finally, leaving the nursery and heading to Professor Xavier's office.


	6. Questions

A little bit more of angsty Scott for your pleasure...

**Chapter Six: Questions**

Coming up to the large oaken door, Scott raised his hand to knock.

'_Come in, Scott,'_ the fatherly tone sounded inside his head. He opened the door, stepping inside.

The office was the same as ever, a tasteful, seamless blend of Old English decorum and flowing, comforting feng shui. The dark oak desk faced the door, a painting on the wall behind it, French doors lead to the balcony on the left, looking out across the lake. To the right was a small arraignment of potted and hanging plants, as well as a small rock fountain placed on a dark-stained French Neoclassic end table. There was a leather couch and several matching chairs arranged around a glass end table, complete with an antique chess set.

"I'm glad to see you," the Professor offered, speaking aloud now. "You look well...Please, have a seat." Scott sat in the leather armchair across from the large oaken desk. His spine stayed rigid, not touching the back of the comfortable chair.

Despite everything, Professor Charles Xavier had not changed much. He remained an impressive man, from the waist up; finely dressed and well groomed. He still spoke with a comforting ease, due in part to his rich and refined British lilt.

"Ororo tells me that you have no recollection of the past thirty-odd months." Began the Professor, Scot doubted Ororo had to tell him anything. "You were in Toronto?"

"It's true," Scott confirmed with a slight nod. A silence passed between them. Scott was familiar with the technique; physiatrists used it to get their patients talking. Most people couldn't stand dead air; Scott was not most people.

"If there's anything you'd like to say, I'm willing to listen," the Professor prompted finally.

"Like what?" He asked with the most respectful tone he could manage considering the stress he was under.

"Feelings, thoughts, concerns, anything really," the Professor offered kindly. "You just lost two and a half years of your life; surely there must be something you'd like to talk about. You don't have to hold anything back."

"I don't even know where to start," Scott began, his voice pitching slightly as he went on, words spilling out as a deluge. "I go missing from a mutants' civil rights convention—I wake up almost three years later—_in Canada_, like no time has gone by—my fiancée is married—she has a daughter! I feel like my life is reeling out of control. I can't—"

"Scott," Charles interrupted soothingly. "Calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Scott yelled, slamming a fist into the arm of his chair, uncharacteristically loosing his temper, as if the dam holding back the waves of his anxieties and passions so stoically all these years had suddenly chosen to burst.

"I know you must have a million questions," Xavier agreed, reaching out telepathically to comfort his oldest student.

"I only have one," Scott corrected. "What the hell happened to me?" He took a breath, finding his center as Jean had taught him so long ago. Another breath to push away the feeling of nostalgia.

"How could this happen? Goddamn it!" Scott continued; it must have been the first time he had actually sworn at the professor, "How could you not find me? How could Jean not feel me? Where have I been all this time?" His voice broke, "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Scott, I realize this must be overwhelming for you," Xavier sympathized.

"No," Scott interrupted. "Jean—at Alkali Lake—that was overwhelming—I've learned to deal with 'overwhelming'—this is ...I don't even know what—torturous, sickening..."

"I understand that you're not accustomed to this loss of control," explained the Professor gently. "And I want you to realize that none of us are against you...We're all here for you, to help you through this...we're going to figure this out."

"I need you to read my mind," Scott interrupted finally. "Like you did for Logan, see if there's not something locked away up there."

"I can try, Scott," the Professor offered. "But—"

"Then try!" Scott urged desperately. Professor Xavier sighed, wheeling around from behind his desk to where Scott sat.

"Just relax," he instructed, raising his hands to the younger man's temples. Scott shut his eyes, taking a breath as the Professor leaned into him in concentration. In the next instant, Xavier jerked back as if he had been physically pushed out of Scott's mind.

"What is it?" Scott asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"

"Scott, I'm afraid I'm unable to read your mind," Professor Xavier explained. "At least not any thoughts or memories from the timeframe that you were missing...Scott I'm afraid it seems that there is something physically keeping me from your lost memories. Some sort of barrier—like a locked door..."

"Can't you try again," Scott pressed desperately.

"Even if I did," the professor offered him regrettably. "The results would be no different...you see, these memories, they aren't hidden—buried somewhere in the shadows—they're being suppressed by some sort of artificial blockade. Until we know why—or how—I don't think it's safe, for either of us, to proceed like this."

"What do you mean suppressed?" Scott pondered aloud. "Some sort of artificial barrier, as in a telepathic one." Xavier shook his head.

"If this mental barricade was created by a telepath, there would be some sort of impression," he explained. "Some sort of neurological fingerprint left in your mind...but I can sense nothing like that. No, I'm more worried that this stumbling block is physical."

"You mean it was placed there...medicinally?" Scott asked, deep lines forming in his brow.

"Perhaps," Charles offered in a soothing tone. "Scott, if this memory loss was surgically induced—as you fear—it is probable that there would be tell-tall physical signs or symptoms. When you feel up to it, perhaps it would be wise to meet Dr. McCoy in the basement infirmary for a standard physical and some basic tests."

"Is he ready for me now?" Scott asked, starting up from his seated position.

"Perhaps you should take some rest first," Xavier offered carefully. "The current situation must be very taxing on you. Some sleep would help to clear your mind."

"Professor," Scott started up, a little more forcefully than he had intended. "I'd really just prefer to get this all behind me."

"Very well," the professor agreed. "I'll let him know you're coming."


	7. Scars

Hello again everyone, I apologize for the delay in this one, I seemed to have lost my stamina. I'd like to say I'd be updating more frequently, but I'll be in the Bahamas all this week, and after that I just don't know...But I'll do my best!

I'd also like to take a moment to point out some inconsistencies in my plot before my all-too intelligent reviewers (yes, I'm being sincere,) get to, and make me look like a fool. When Scott first "comes around" I mentioned he had lithium and ibuprofen among his affects—a contextual error which has now been rectified. In all actuality, mixing the two drugs can have negative effects, so sorry about that. Someone needs to be more careful with their research (blushes.)

While I'm here I might as well apologize for the fact that my chapters are getting progressively shorter. And again, a big thanks to all my faithful readers!

**Chapter Seven: Scars**

The elevator jerked ever so slightly upon reaching the basement level. Scott immerged from the pine-wood paneled chamber into the chrome-plated world of the subbasement of the school. His heels clicked persistently on the immaculately tiled floor as he made his way down the tunneled halls to the medical bay of the subbasement. There was a hydraulic hiss of compressed air as the automatic door slid open and Scott entered the lab.

"Scott." Dr. McCoy greeted him warmly, approaching Scott in his typical bestial stride, wrapping him very briefly in a fond hug. "It's good to see you alive." Scott raised an eyebrow appraisingly.

"Thanks," he replied blandly.

"I meant that sincerely," Hank offered him in a low, rich voice. Scott sighed and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he answered regrettably. "It's just hard to wrap my head around...You all really believed I was dead—for two and a half years. I mean it's crazy, how could something like this happen?"

"You feel as though we gave up on you," Hank replied knowingly as he washed his slightly fuzzy, blue hands meticulously. "You should know it wasn't like that—not once. Ten weeks, we searched, for any indication, any passing whisper or hint that would lead us to believe that you were still alive. There was nothing. Now I can't explain how it is that you seemed to fall off the proverbial face of the earth, but you must understand there had to be a point when we stopped searching and went on with our lives." Scott sat and tried to listen to the doctor's argument patiently, despite the sickness that was settling into his stomach.

"Now, none of us were cavalier about moving on," Hank assured him. "Least of all Jean. She was torn to pieces at loosing you—she stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped speaking—the minute any of us got to close she'd throw a telekinetic temper-tantrum, she simply didn't want to function." Scott shook his head, hating himself for having ever caused her so much pain.

"And then one day, Logan got through to her," Hank continued carefully. Scott's head shot to attention, meeting Hank's gaze. "Because he told her that she had to be strong, and live her life, because it's what you would have wanted for her." Scott scoffed audibly in disbelief at the man's audacity.

"Now perhaps it seems wrong to you, for him to have taken that liberty," the doctor concluded, gauging his reaction. "But the way she was living, I **know** it would have broken your heart to see her that way..."

"I would always want her to be happy," Scott defended. "And I would never want her to stop enjoying her life—but I wish she could have done it in a way that we could have picked up the pieces again..."

"It's very understandably," Hank agreed. "But you must realize the situation Jean was in: you weren't coming back, and she is unfortunately not as young as she once was, and she desperately wanted to have a baby. You can't possibly blame her for the choices she's made, despite the pain I know they're causing you now..."

"I'm not mad at Jean," Scott insisted firmly. "I could never be mad at her...but Logan—"

"Now you're being unfair," Dr. McCoy warned. "Logan has never taken advantage of Jean—she's far too intelligent to allow for that—and he genuinely loves her and their daughter. Truth be told, he's become a rather invaluable asset to our little mutant community." Scott swore under his breath, Hank rolled his eyes slightly.

"Well, that being said, I'm sure you'd like to get this over with," he offered finally, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "If you could just slip off your shoes and step up on the scale." Scott stepped up, a number registering in fluorescent red letters. Hank raised an eyebrow before jotting the number down on his clipboard.

"What's it say?" Scott asked.

"Ninety-three kilograms," Dr. McCoy answered nonchalantly, eyes still fixed on Scott's medical records. Scott sped through the mental math easily.

"205 pounds...seems too high," he observed agitatedly. "Are you sure that's right?"

"Scott, I'm quite certain that all the equipment in this lab is in perfect working order," Hank assured him. "The ideal weight for a man your height and build is somewhere between 190 and 200 pounds, it's really nothing to worry about." But the numbers weren't all that bothered Scott.

"Hank," he asked, keeping his back straight as the doctor adjusted the metric measure to rest on top of his head. "What would a doctor usually prescribe lithium for?" Hank took as step back, observing Scott critically.

"Depression," he answered carefully. "Most commonly bipolar disorder..." Scott seemed troubled by his answer. "Why do you ask?"

"Among some of the things I had with me at the hotel," Scott admitted, uneasily. "Were a couple bottles of pills—lithium, zolpidem—I have no idea how I got them, even how long I've been taking them...I suppose you're gonna want to run and see the professor about this?" Hank eyed his younger patient critically.

"What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about." He rattled off faithfully, raising one hand.

"Hippocratic Oath," Scott inquired. Hank nodded.

"The classical version," he elaborated. "None of that pansy modern stuff..." Scott couldn't help but crack a smile. "Could you take a seat on the table and take off your shirt," Hank asked, indicating the stethoscope. Scott complied, following the prompts Dr. McCoy gave him as he listened to his heart.

"Breathe in...Breathe out. Breathe in...Breathe out." Hank moved behind him, stethoscope pressed to the back of his rib cage. "Breathe in...Breathe out. Breathe in...Breathe out...Scott."

"Yes?" Scott asked, brow arching curiously.

"You have a scar on your back..." Hank explained. The truth was, he had several, and across his chest and arms as well.

"Probably from a mission," he suggested. "Or the crash." Hank noticed how the younger man had to purposefully clench his jaw to omit the phrase 'that killed my parents.'

"I don't think so," Hank offered in return. "It's isolated, much younger scar tissue. It's very clean..." Scott's brow creased significantly as he paused to recollect any incident that could have resulted in the wound.

"Scott," Hank determined finally. "I think you were shot."


	8. Bitter

Here we have it, my beloved readers: the long awaited altercation between Scott and Logan. I hope it's too your liking.

**Chapter Eight: Bitter**

Scott made his way back out of the infirmary; his typical confident gate had been reduced to a broken trod. His head was spinning again, leaving him feeling nauseous and off-balanced. That was when he hit a very solid mass, which he determined probably did not belong in the middle of the hallway. And then he saw it was Logan—and he was sure it did not belong in the middle of the hallway.

Logan had changed very little: still the burly, unshaven, metal-packed berserker that Scott remembered. However, his characteristic reek of cigar smoke seemed to have faded, and it appeared that he actually owned a clean shirt.

"Scott," he grunted in a throaty voice. Scott glared through his glasses at the man.

"Logan," he returned bitterly.

"How are you?" The other man probed cautiously. Scott shrugged.

"What's it matter to you?" He retorted.

"Look—" Logan returned. "I'm trying to be civilized, but if you want to run around like the goddamn gutless wonder then that's fine by me."

"Oh give it a rest, Logan," Scott returned heatedly, closing the remaining space between them. "You think you're so noble now, sticking around like one of the good guys. You wanna be the hero—you've got it, you wanted my girl—you've got her! Does that make you happy? But the only reason Jean's with you today, is because she thought I was dead!"

"Don't you dare," Logan growled dangerously, taking another step forward. "She married me because she loved me—"

Scott hadn't even realized that his fists were clenched until his knuckles connected with Logan's jaw. It hurt like bitch, but his jaw was clenched through the hiss of pain that threatened to escape. He was surprised and a little shocked at himself to discover that he had actually enjoyed it.

Logan reeled from the blow. He wasn't surprised that Scott had worked up the nerve to hit him, he had expected it; he could smell the hostility coming off the other man a mile away. What surprised Logan was the fact that Scott had managed to hit him so hard. He shook off the momentary spout of pain and clenched his fists glaring back at Scott. He could already feel the sharp ends of the blades in his hands working their way out. Scott glared back at him defiantly, regretful, but unapologetic.

"You wanna fight?" He asked lowly in a no-nonsense tone.

"You scared Logan?" Scott returned hotly. There was a pause between them when neither of them knew exactly where they stood, or how to proceed.

"Gentlemen," Dr. McCoy's voice interrupted their altercation, as the bestial man made his way out of the lab. "Is there a problem here?" There was a pause.

"No problem at all," Logan responded finally, turning his gaze from Scott, massaging his jaw slightly; cracking his neck, before promptly walking off. Scott stood rigid as the man went, and Hank approached him.

"I'm a little disappointed in you," the doctor announced calmly. "I would have thought you knew better than to pick a fight with Logan..."

"If he's such a great guy, what do I have to worry about?" Scott scoffed bitterly.

"Yes, well, we both know—father or not—Logan has the bad temper of a wild boar," Hank reminded him knowledgably. "And all my skills as a physician would be of little consequence if he shreds you to ribbons..." Scott let his eyes roll slightly behind a layer ruby quartz.

"Scott," Hank continued. "If you're reluctant to let me see the professor about this—we should go together. I think it would be wise to have his insight on this new development." At length, Scott nodded, he may not have always been pleased with the professor's counsel, but he knew very well that Charles Xavier always had his best interests in mind.

* * *

It was the first time in two and a half years that all the X-Men had gathered together, seated around the coffee table in Professor Xavier's office. Hank McCoy was carefully nestled in the nearby corner. Scott and Logan were a safe distance apart; Scott was seated across from the professor, Logan was leaning against the desk. Jean was seated in the armchair besides the professor; Ororo was sharing the couch with Scott.

"At your discretion," the professor began commandingly, his gaze shifting to Scott. "Hank has informed me of the latest insight to your missing time." Scott nodded, allowing Professor Xavier to continue. "It would seem that you have apparently suffered from a gunshot wound. Hank, what was the timeframe you estimated?"

"I'd say at least within the past two years," the doctor replied analytically. "I would also have to determine that the injury received some sort of medical attention."

"Which poses the question," the professor concluded, "of what exactly Scott has been doing in the past two and a half years that would put him in a position to be shot at."

"Magneto," Scott blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. The sting the accusation left with the professor seemed to radiate through the room.

"That's highly unlikely," Jean intercepted his indictment.

"Who else?" Scott continued logically.

"A government investigation into the Brotherhood forced Magneto underground," Storm explained, ever-patient. "There's been no trace of him for over a year...Mystique and other members of the Brotherhood surface occasionally, but for the most part their operation is at a standstill. For the time being, something like this would be far beyond their means."

"Even if they were capable," the professor continued. "I doubt such brash actions would serve to abet Eric's cause...I believe, that at this time, our best course of action is to wait to see if Scott regains any memories of his missing time." Scott felt destitute, but he nodded in agreement with the rest of the X-Men, before rising to depart.

"Scott," Jean caught him in the alcove just outside the doorway. "I need to know that we're okay."

"We're okay," he assured her.

"You're just saying that," Jean reprimanded. Scott mentally grit his teeth.

"Yes, I am just saying that," he told her unsympathetically. "I don't know what else you want from me. I can't be okay with this. I can't go on pretending what we had never happened. I can't look at you without seeing—" He stopped mid-sentence as his vision clouded, and the next thing he knew the floor seemed to be rising to meet him.


	9. A Step Towards Normal

My beloved readers, I am gravely sorry for the wait, and for the quality and length of this chapter. I had been hoping that going to see X-Men3 would boost my morale and inspire me to get on with things...but it didn't. I can promise only infrequent updates, at best for now. We have come into a particularly difficult transition period, and any comments or ideas are, as always, invaluable.

**Chapter Nine: A Step Towards Normal**

Scott woke before his eyes opened; it was instinctual to him by now. His world was nothing but blackness, but he knew where he was; the smell was unmistakable. He was in his room...their room...and it was the last place in the world he wanted to be.

Even after he opened his eyes the roomremained black as pitch. It was nighttime now and the darkness and ghosts surrounded him. He could feel her everywhere; he could feel them: the smell of Chanel in the pillows, a shadow in the vanity mirror, his cologne and her lotion arranged harmoniously on the dresser. The bittersweet memories overwhelmed him.

Scott only paused a moment to make sure that he was fullydressed before rushing out of the room. The hallway beyond the bedchamber was deserted. The dimmed lights cast long shadows across the floor that seemed to follow him wherever he moved. Scott could not recall a time when he felt more alone at the mansion.

He descended the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could, and he was not sure why he was compelled to proceed so cautiously. The antechamber below was darker than the one above; the only light was cast across the floor through the arched doorway leading to the sitting room. Scott peered inside carefully, finding that some of the teachers were gathered over coffee.

"Scott," the professor did not fail to notice him. "You're awake. Come, have a seat." Scott blinked slightly.

"What time is it?" He asked, taking a careful step into the room.

"A little after 11:30, I think," Ororo explained.

"I've been asleep for a few hours then," Scott determined, still unable to join his colleagues as they lounged around the coffee table, opting instead to stand between their gathering and the exit, as if he was poised to run at a moment's notice.

"Actually, Scott, it's Saturday night. You've been asleep for over two days," the professor replied. Scott scoffed inwardly: it figured that after a two year absence the first thing he would do is sleep through almost an entire weekend. "I have a feeling that you were running on mostly adrenaline since you arrived home."

"We were just waiting for the last of the children to return from their excursions into the city," Ororo explained. "Please, come in and wait with us if you feel up to it." She motioned to the seat on the couch besides her. After a brief moment of contemplation, Scott inched forward tentatively, sitting himself down besides the weather goddess.

"Scott," Professor Xavier addressed him carefully. "I was wondering if you had any plans or desires as far as being reintroduced to the everyday lives of the students...perhaps you'd like to speak with them, or—"

"Actually, Professor," Scott interrupted his mentor as respectfully as he could manage. "I was hoping I could start teaching again."

"That sounds like a marvelous plan," the professor offered in agreement. "Did you have any specific time in mind to begin?"

"As soon as possible," Scott returned. "Preferably Monday."

"You don't think that's a little too soon," Jean interceded. "You've only been home a few days; you'll have barely any time to prepare. The students—"

"Scott," Professor Xavier pressed, interrupting her unobtrusively. "Are you sure you're well enough to begin teaching again?"

"With all due respect, professor," he insisted. "The only way I can think to start feeling normal, is to start acting normal. I'm ready to take my life back: no special treatment, no condolences. I just want to get back to teaching my classes and living my life."

"Which classes were you thinking about taking up?" Ororo questioned encouragingly.

"English and math," he elaborated. "Six periods a day—like always."

"Don't you think it would be wise to begin with a more temperate course schedule at first?" Jean suggested, perhaps posing more of a challenge than she had intended to.

"Two Algebra II classes, one Calculus class, two AP American Lit classes, one AP British Writers class, and one planning period—that's the way I've always done it." Scott replied, "And I've never had a problem."

"A lot has changed since then, and I just don't think that's the best way to go about things," Jean offered kindly.

"But still," the professor assured her. "It is Scott's decision to make. As long as he feels he's ready, we should trust his judgment—after all, no one understands his current situation better than he does." Scott nodded to the professor in thanks. Jean sighed slightly in agreement, although all those present were sure the altercation between her and the professor had continued mentally for some time.

"Just let me know where the classes are and I'll have the lesson plans ready by tomorrow afternoon," Scott offered agreeably, maintaining a forced eye-contact.

"I'd be glad to look them over for you," Jean suggested compassionately.

"Sure thing," Scott replied affirmatively with a casual smile.

The rest of faculty looked on in silent suspense at the altercation, unsure of how to approach such a foreign situation. It was the first time in a **very** long time that any of them had seen Scott and Jean fighting.


	10. All Lessons Learned

Well, I'm back. My apologies about the wait, but with a few reviews I might be able to keep up the stamina to write another chapter. (Hint hint.)

**Chapter Ten: All Lessons Learned**

1It was Monday morning, when first period Advanced Placement American Literature class was made privy to the latest news about the mansion. Professor Summers was back from the dead, making notes on the chalkboard casually, as if he had been there all along. Many of the students had stopped in the doorway to stare. There had been several reports over the weekend, of students catching glimpses of him in the kitchen or heading down the hallway, but no one had expected to see him back in a classroom, especially so soon.

"Alright, alright," he began, waving them inside. "Come inside, have a seat: we've got things to do, places to go, people to see." The small group of students cautiously filed into the classroom, taking their seats in the small lecture room.

"I've been told, you were supposed to have read _The Scarlet Letter_," he began the lesson once everyone had settled in. A chorus of groans circulated through the room. "Yes, yes, we have to talk about that," Scott continued, mimicking their unenthused tone. "So let's begin with a little background information on Nathaniel Hawthorn." He pointed behind him to the name scrawled out on the blackboard.

"Born July 4th, 1804—don't write that down, the date's not important," he waved off the swarm of furiously scribbling pens and pencils. "In Salem, Massachusetts—providing us with the backdrop of our story. Earlier this year, some of you, read a book called _The Crucible_—remember that on?" There were several blank stares throughout the room.

"But Mr. Summers, we already took that test," Scott teased in a sarcastically droning voice. "Well you've got to remember these things! Does anyone recall a certain character from _The Crucible_, one Judge Hathorne? Well, he was a real judge of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692, and the ancestor of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne was so disgusted by his family's involvement in the persecution of innocent men and women during the Salem Witch Trials that he added the 'w' to his name to disassociate himself from them.

"Hawthorne was also a recluse," he continued. "What's a recluse?" A tense silence filled the room. "Come on, this is my AP class, someone should be able to tell me what it means."

"Someone who keeps to themselves," Kitty offered sheepishly.

"That's exactly it," Scott offered. "I'm glad I have at least one student who's awake. He wrote several short stories, and worked as an editor for a magazine, but he wasn't able to make a living on his writing. He got a job at a Boston Customs House, which is where our story begins. _The Scarlet Letter_ is what made him one of the most acclaimed writers of his time: so what did we think of it?" A tense silence filled the room. Scott blinked, surveying the guilty faces of his students. "Someone has to have something to say?" One gloved hand was slowly raised.

"Marie," he offered encouragingly, walking towards her.

"Well it kind of made me angry," she tried to explain in her southern lilt. A chorus of unimpressed laughter circled through the room; the girl blushed.

"No, absolutely," he agreed. "Would you care to tell us why?" Rogue shrugged.

"I just didn't like the fact that they persecuted Hester," she explained thoughtfully. "Even though she never did anything to hurt them—it seemed grotesquely judgmental." Scott smiled minutely.

"But then aren't you being judgmental about the puritans being judgmental?" He questioned. Marie shrugged abashedly. "It's okay," he assured her. "Go on."

"The way Hawthorne presented the story," she continued. "You weren't supposed to like Governor Bellingham, even though he was the law-abiding citizen or whatever—"

"Precisely," Scott encouraged, now in full teacher-mode, moving to the chalkboard. "Hawthorne was absolutely, one-hundred percent anti-puritan." He jotted it down on the board in thick letters and underlined it dramatically. "As long as we're discussing Governor Bellingham—did anyone catch what kind of house he lived in?"

"A nice one..." Jubilee put in unenthusiastically.

"It's huge," Scott agreed, flamboyantly waving his hands. "There are glass windows, and gold filigree laid into the stair railing—he lives in a Puritan society. What is Governor Bellingham?"

By now the class had gotten past their displeasure and malcontent with the unfamiliar enthusiasm and quirkiness of the day's lesson, and were currently curious enough to play along.

"The antagonist," Kitty offered.

"No, no, not that," their teacher replied. "What's it called when you tell people one thing and do another."

"A hypocrite," John replied, resting his chin on one balled fist, rather unenthused.

"Exactly," he agreed, writing it on the board. "Now let's talk about Hester...who is she?" By now many of the students were willing to voice their thoughts, and he would occasionally offer guidance to incite the answers he was looking for. It was a generally productive class, and they had gone through the major themes and techniques with a few minutes of class.

"Would anyone else care to offer up their opinion on _The Scarlet Letter_?" He prompted. "On anything at all...even if you hated it." The silence through the classroom was absolute. "No one else has anything to say? You should. Everyone of us should be able to identify with someone in this book, don't you think? We've all been judged, feared, hated. Some of us are like Hester...people can judge us outright. Others are like Dimmesdale...you can pass for human, but you know in your heart that your different. We don't have you read these books to make your heads spin. Take a lesson from Emerson, become "Man Thinking" take what you read and learn from it."

As students stared glassily, the bell rang, signaling the end of the period.

"Remember, we're writing on Friday," he reminded the class as they gathered their books and scurried out of the room.

"Professor Summers," Marie started up, approaching his desk cautiously. He turned back to her attentively. "I just wanted to tell you...I really enjoyed today's lesson. I mean Dr. McCoy's a great teacher and all, but he's a little too smart for our good." Scott laughed lightly.

"Well thank you very much, Marie," he offered, seeing her out the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."


End file.
